


History is made at night

by ajattra



Category: Grindhouse (2007), Planet Terror
Genre: F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajattra/pseuds/ajattra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Cherry and El Wray meet in the middle of the night, how a chance encounter sparks something greater. Only her name isn't Cherry back then; it's Palomita. CherryxWray</p>
            </blockquote>





	History is made at night

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I was writing this for Porn Battle XIII, but I didn't finish it on time. I got derailed... figured I'd post this anyway. Prompts: past, first, history...

****

She’s been so many people by now that it’s hard to keep track anymore. The details slip by with each new life, a new leaf turned to earn happiness. They all end up the same way, fucked and broken, and so she’s on the road again, freezing in the night, cursing for not stealing a fucking jacket. There’s another lesson learned right there. So maybe someday she’ll find a use for all the things she’d learned.

It’s already past midnight, and she’s stuck on a bus stop, knowing that there are no busses coming for hours. She’s freezing in her shorts and tights, patched up boots and a top. All she has over that is a thin woolen cardigan that covers her ass and hands. Dark hair on a ponytail, the sleeves of her cardigan wrapped around her fingers, she clings onto hope.

She was Snow White once, slumbering deep. No prince came to wake her with a kiss, so she saved herself. Now her capacity for assholes is at its limit. She has rules now, plans for her future. She’ll be a doctor, they get by in this world; they get respect.

Another car passes her by, ignoring her standing there thumb up in the air. She curses at them, flips them the finger in her rage, and kicks the ground, leaving a cloud of rock dust hovering by her feet. Her thoughts circle dozens of ideas, but she can’t quite tell who she’ll become this time. A gut feeling tells her she’ll be promiscuous, just to piss in _his_ beer.

She turns towards the sound of another car (a pickup truck), arm extended for attention immediately. To her surprise they begin to slow down and pull over. Her tongue flicks against the back of her teeth nervously, but she grabs her back pack and heads towards the car with swinging hips. She’s feeling like a new girl already.

“Where to?” the driver asks, his voice deep and dark. He’s cute, clearly dangerous for a girl’s mental health, but cute: Olive skin, leather jacket, a chin strip beard.  

“Where ever,” she answers him softly and climbs aboard his car. They roll back onto the road, silence being a comfort for once. But she can tell he’s looking at her from the corner of his eye, evaluating.

“What’s your name?” he asks her, somehow making a simple question into sexual innuendo. She likes him already.

“Why don’t you tell me?” she counters him, turning towards him on her seat. This is a test. She wants to know what kind of man he is.

He moves his eyes to her for a second, allowing them to move up and down, measuring her for all she’s worth. Just his gaze makes her feel exhausted; it’s as intimate as a touch. He returns his eyes on the road almost too quickly for her taste. She’s left weak in the aftermath, not believing how he can affect this way with just a look.

“You look like a Palomita to me,” he tells her, marking her then and there. She doesn’t even hesitate when she responds, “Palomita it is.”

She wonders what Palomita is like; if she can make a man like that see the stars; if she’s brave and strong; if she’s the kind of woman that can fall in love wisely this time.

Tossing her head a bit to brush a loose strand of hair, she eyes the black road ahead. “And what’s your name?” she asks him next, genuinely curious about what is this man’s story. He feels powerful, the kind that knows what he wants and takes it without further ado. Want, take, have; Simple principles to live by.

“El Wray,” he says, remaining tight-lipped. She’s left feeling his name on her tongue, how it rolls off so naturally.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he tells her, eyes cast on the road, but the almost caring tone of his voice implicating he’s given her a good look already. If she was a cat, she’d purr.

“I could use a few,” she chuckles, thirsty for the numbness alcohol would bring her. After everything it would be a blessing. Then she remembers she’s not Snow White anymore and that Palomita probably just feels everything more intensely after a drink.

“Can I buy you one?” he asks, face shifting towards hers. He acts casual, like he could walk on water, yet is probably more than ready to talk her into a bar with him. She decides to cut the crap, sensing Palomita doesn’t care for that.

“You can buy me two,” she announces, lifting two fingers in the air for him to see. A smile passes by his lips, and she’s sure he’ll find the nearest bar now.

They don’t talk for the next fifteen minutes. She enjoys how the warmth returns feel to her skin and wraps the cardigan on tighter. He focuses on driving, stealing glances at her body, ravishing her in his mind. The lights of civilization shine in the distance, alerting her to the present. She can see their alluring invitation quite clearly now, and she knows he’ll lead them to sanctuary soon.

They pull over at the edge of town, climbing out of the car and heading inside a bar. She eyes his tight jeans approvingly, follows him inside and makes a mental note about the way he holds the door for her. As she passes him by, his hand touches the small of her back, guiding her inside, his fingers brushing against her.

The bar is quiet, an old jukebox playing faded hits from a decade ago, and the patrons carrying on hushed conversations in their corners. He walks up to the bartender, orders them something, while she makes her way next to him, sitting on a stool. The bartender places two high pitchers of beer in front of them and then two small glasses of schnapps. El Wray pays him, and he then knocks the schnapps glasses empty into the beer pitchers.

She finds herself smirking, slightly impressed with his quick thinking. She told him she’d let him serve her two drinks, so he’s making sure it takes awhile to consume. Taking hold of her pitcher with both hands, she drags it in front of her, stating, “This is either very smart or very stupid.”

Wray looks at her possessively like he already knows she’ll surrender. “You made up the rules, Palomita,” he tells her, “I’m just bending them a little.”

She drinks the alcohol, and it burns her lips and throat. But it sets fire in her veins; it awakens Palomita for real, burying the remnants of whoever existed before her. And Palomita can feel this attraction as clear as the light is to a moth in darkness. She doesn’t resist when he moves closer to her, penetrating eyes upon her. She doesn’t resist when his hand slides over her thigh and stays there.

They ask no bullshit questions. Not a word is exchanged about dreams, professions, regrets or family. He can tell she’s adrift, and recognize the two of them as companion souls. He hopes he can make her stay, ease his loneliness. Everything is foreplay, double meanings slipping into innocent comments. The tone is charged, the visuals clear on both their minds. The alcohol helps move it along, remove even the basic inhibitions.

An hour later they stumble outside together. With a smirk, he realizes she’s lost her cardigan somewhere along the way. Her shoulder feels cold already when he touches it to stop her. She responds at the slightest touch, freezing still, surprised when he removes his jacket and puts it on her. They’re very close when he dresses her, his breath tickles her sensitive skin.

He breaths in her wild laughter as he finally kisses her. She doesn’t mind the taste of beer on his lips or the smell of cigarettes on his clothes. Smoke is air to her, beer mother’s milk. The world spins in perfect motion, and his arms are steady despite everything else – including her – being loose and astray.

He pushes her against the door of his pickup truck, the feel of his beard tickling her fair skin. She sees her lipstick smeared on him and imagines how it must look on her face. He pulls her hair free from the pony tail, releasing her cankerous curls all over her back. They feel like silk on his fingers; he sinks his hand into them when he holds her head still for another kiss. The alcohol doesn’t make him lose his self-control like this woman does, and he cannot explain it. It’s something primal.

She can no longer think of witty things to say; her mind is erased by his touch and she’s shivering against him, her movement almost resembling pain. Somehow he can pull away and get them both inside the car. His hands are steady despite his condition, his senses clear. She snuggles beneath his arm, pressing herself against him for warmth. They take off, and he assures her he lives right near-by, how it’s safe to drive. Palomita believes him; she believes Wray.

Her veins are pumping; blood circulates faster, filling her with need. Her hand reaches inside his jeans, for his erection, and he doesn’t tell her ‘no’. She unzips his pants, pulling him out and then leaning over. His hand grasps her hair, holds onto the back of her head forcibly as she takes him into her mouth almost completely.

She sucks, and he pulls her hair a bit too tight, eyes cast on the road. He tenses as she begins to tease his tip with her tongue, making swirling shapes around it. And she moves her lips up and down the base of his shaft, relishing his taste, his rigid feel. He holds onto her hair, details slipping by him as he becomes more and more enveloped by her warmth and wetness. She grabs the base his shaft with her hand, closing it tightly around him, squeezing just a bit while she sucks, and he nearly drives them to a ditch.

The sudden movement makes her yank him from her mouth as his hand retreats from her hair; he struggles to keep the car on the road, both hands on the wheel now. Palomita laughs at him freely, pulling away from him to leave him unsatisfied. She begins to kiss his neck, moaning to his ear. She has the most beautiful voice, it’s downright entrancing. She can feel him twitch against her, fighting his arousal the last few minutes of their journey.

And when they get there, he covers himself before he reaches for her, only to find her out of reach, already stepping outside. They stumble to the door, her seeking support from him again. Palomita realizes he isn’t really drunk at all, despite having drunk just as much as she did. He takes the keys from his pocket, one hand around her anxious figure as he opens the door. They push inside together.

She leans against the wall, kicking her boot violently off her feet after she’s opened the zipper for each. A strange moment of clarity occurs, the room feels solid, and she wanders deeper into his home, her keen senses locating the licker cabin easily. The closest bottle is green, the liquid inside calling for her. She takes a gulp eagerly, its strong taste numbing her tongue.

He pushes against her from behind, takes the bottle from her hand and puts it down. She can feel his erection against her ass, ready and zealous. Suddenly she doesn’t feel as brave anymore. His hands creep over her waist, landing to her stomach, tender in their approach.

“Will you fuck me, _Palomita_?” he asks with a growl, his teeth pressing against her skin, when he kisses the spot where her shoulder meets her neck. She wonders how Wray can make an invitation for sex sound like a marriage proposal.

He slides his jacket off her, pulling her shorts open, tugging at her shirt next. She turns to him defiantly, meeting his devoted gaze with arrogance. And she is about to say something when his lips already crash against hers, silencing all opposition. His tongue feels aggressive in her mouth; it seeks for hers with sharp movement. They battle for dominance for a few exhilarating seconds, but he wins.

They strip down with haste, clothes falling to their feet until they’re both bare.

He pushes them towards the bed, knowing exactly what he’s doing. And he nudges her down on the bed, wanting something soft beneath her, because he isn’t going to be soft on her. Wray moves between her legs, kneeled and anxious. He claims eye contact for a second before he thrusts into her, no plans of prolonging their game. The last hours have been foreplay enough.

Palomita moans, the sound nearly breaking his heart. Her full lips beg, and she’s not even sure herself what she’s begging for. She lifts her hips, pushing against him as he thrusts. They settled into a rhythm that’s closer to chaos than order, but it satisfies both.

He seems to reach her everywhere, those spots she usually needs to take care of herself are buzzing with pleasure, ecstasy in her writhing body. She grasps onto the headboard of his bed, desperate to hold onto something. It’s all a drunken haze: delicious and exhilarating. His hands reach for her breasts, kneading them as he moves, pinching her hard nipples. And then he brings his hands to her waist, grabbing hold, so he can thrust with more power, get deeper.

And she can feel him losing control, ramming into her harder and harder, close to his release. So Palomita takes matters into her own hands, refusing to be anyone’s sex doll. She flips them over, witnessing an expression of disappointment while she settles on him, landing her hands on his chiseled chest. And she begins to ride him gently at first, quickening her movement when he spanks her playfully, smirking at her. Wray enjoys watching her move, this Palomita he picked up and never wants to let go.

His hands are on her tummy, tracing shapes on her skin. They wander to her ass, cupping it as he grimaces with pleasure. She buckles her hips, finding that perfect blend of motion, working on that spot inside her that brings the world to an end. Snow White feared to go there, but Palomita embraces this with a drunken breath, an ecstatic smile and a feeling that she could fall for a guy like Wray. One more push, she moves her pelvis and he thrusts into her just the right way, sending her over the edge.

He continues the maddening motion even as she falters, her heading falling in exhaustion. She’s a victim of his pleasure, a tired drunken girl. But she keeps riding him, sensing how he grows impatient beneath her; how he quickens the pace and rocks her until her thighs hurt and every muscle feels sore and he tenses beneath her, gasping and finding his release.  

She slides off him, sinks into the bed beside him. Her eyesight grows blurry, the alcohol burns in her blood and the serenity she felt just a moment ago is fleeting already. Palomita buries her face in mattress, gives in to sleep, whilst Wray smiles at her back, running his hand over her skin, caressing. He notices her drift to sleep effortlessly, and he can’t blame her.

Too bad he’s not one bit tired though, so Wray stands up naked, pulls on a pair of new boxers and searches for his cigarettes, placing one to his lips lazily. He finds his zippo a moment later, going to the back door so he can smoke outside. The first breath of smoke is rejuvenating, feels almost as good as a kiss. He stares at the night sky, at the lights of the city in the distance, and thinks to himself how _he can’t wait to see her wrapped in one of his shirts, foul words on her tongue the next morning._

-fin    


End file.
